


Prism

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [86]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, Body Image, Consent Issues, Dr Nyarlathotep, F/M, Identity Issues, Other, Porn with Feelings, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotional PWP with eventual squid. Does what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prism

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: 12/Clara tentacle porn. I don't care the circumstances, I don't care who has the tentacles, I just want suckers on flesh and tentacles in orifices, please.

The first time Clara touches the Doctor - not a hug, not a held hand, but the first time she lets herself linger - he flinches, and then freezes. His breath held, eyes wild, staring at anything but her. And then he runs.

 

* * *

The second time is much like the first. She’s just more committed, this time. More prepared.

“It’s okay,” she says softly, keeping her hand light but present on his hip. “It’s just like hugging, only a little bit more so.”

He exhales harshly and meets her eyes for a fraction of a second, and then he bolts. Gone, clean gone, down to whatever depths the TARDIS provides him.

She never gets an apology. Not for this or the previous flouncing. Not that she was expecting one. But later, he does slink back into the console room, meanders over to where she’s kicked back, feet up, marking essays. Not that she’s been back to work in a while, but she will do one day, and it’s good to be prepared. He shuffles over looking at anything but her and sits down beside her, letting his arm rest against hers.

Not an arm around her, let alone anything more, but it’s something.

“Rain forests or snowy tundras?” he asks, keeping his voice low and his breathing even.

“Rain forests,” she says, chewing on the tip of her pen.

 

* * *

The third time she touches him - not platonic, she means, or even romantic - an unambiguous sexual caress - it’s because he touched her first. Their hands woven together, on the bench in the console room, and then his hand slipping out of hers, coming to rest on her thigh.

She steals a glance, out of the corner of her eye: he’s staring straight ahead. A muscle in his neck twitching. She looks back down, at the essays that don’t matter, and then to his hand, splayed loosely but deliberately. His thumb almost, almost rubbing at her stockings.

Not the right thing to do of course but she wants, god, she wants to just tell him to fuck her and get it over with already, just _do_ it. Instead, she gently puts her hand on top of his, nudging it up under her skirt. Chewing on the tip of her pen, which is getting mangled by now. Bad habit.

His breath hitches the second she starts letting herself enjoy this. Squirmy and building and his head is turned to face her, now, an odd expression on his face, eyes darting from her eyes to her mouth to their hands and back again. He inches his hand up incrementally, deliberately flexing his fingers. Not ever aggressive but gradually with more pressure. She gets the sense that he isn’t being hesitant or tentative, just. Scientific, almost. Like he’s cataloguing the result of every action before moving on to the next.

And she lets him. Keeps still as his fingers venture slowly up her thigh, brush against the damp fabric of her panties. Her jaw clenched, fists clenched, essays fluttering down to the floor.

He tilts his head at her, eyes narrowed. “You like this,” he says quietly. Or asks, she’s not sure.

“Obviously.” Her eyes locked on his, she lets her hips lift up, just a touch. His hand follows easily, not pressing back.

“Yeah, I can feel-” He bites the rest of that sentence off, flinching. “I can see that.”

“And you?” She glances over at his lap. Nothing. She tries to not feel insulted.

He stares off into the middle distance, gears clearly turning in his brain. “I’m not entirely sure what this is, to be honest. Does that bother you?”

“That you’re a virgin? No.” She grins weakly, he frowns. She does something with her eyebrows that she hopes communicate that she knows what he means, or can at least guess.

That she knows he’s different. Maybe she hadn’t, once. But she accepts it, now. As he’d accepted himself. And she’d been fine with that, could handle that, except now his index finger is sliding so impossibly slowly past the edge of her panties and into her wet-slick cunt. And she can’t handle it, really.

“Doctor, what are we-”

“You enjoy this,” he interrupts. “I’d like to - provide you, with that. If I may.”

His finger crooking, her breaths falling out of her lungs half-formed. “You may,” she chokes out, finally letting herself grind against his hand.

 

* * *

The fourth time, she’s as deliberate as he’d been, slipping her hand beneath his lapel, tracing a line down his chest, nails clicking over buttons. Palm flat on his belly, and waiting, watching for his reaction - he looks confused - and then lower, fingers hooking onto his waistband.

“Do you like this?” she asks. Half an echo.

“You do,” he says.

“But do you? Do you want this?”

For once, he looks afraid. Or lost, at least, completely adrift in what this means for her. What it should mean for him. “You do,” he says again, a little panicked.

“Part of my enjoyment comes from the feeling being mutual.” Careful, plainspoken, obvious. Since he’s not like other boys. Still, she fiddles with his belt buckle, undoes it and undoes his flies before resting her hand against him, again. A little lower this time.

“I want what you want,” he says. And somehow she gets it - it’s not that he’s just doing this for her, his fucking ‘duty of care’, or whatever. She wants it so he wants it too.

“I feel what you feel,” he continues. Voice low and raspy. “Your arousal, I - ”

She shuts him up mouth-first, leads him down into whatever depths the TARDIS provides. A bedroom, a bed. She pushes him down onto it. He goes willingly.

“You want me to undress you,” he says absently. Like he’s listening through an earpiece to some reporter calling the play-by-play. She’s got his coat off, boots off, trousers slung low and sloppy around his hips.

“Yeah. Later. That’d be nice, I’d enjoy that. But right now, I want me to undress you.” She gets his shirt unbuttoned, trousers off. He looks almost human like this, stripped half-naked, pale and skinny and vulnerable.

He looks scared again. Tensed up, not in a good way. Hands balled into fists by his side.

“It’s okay,” she says, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “It’s alright.”

She kisses him, passionately as she knows how, letting her hands linger on his body. Over all the bony edges and soft spots and wrinkles and creases. As if to say _I see you and I like what I see and it’s alright, it’s okay._

“You want - ” he starts. Breaks off, his mind going someplace else as she picks what are to him, she assumes, odd places to touch. Like the whole of him is just. An odd thing to want to touch.

She tries not to be put off by that. Or by the fact that he still isn’t hard, despite her best efforts.

“You want me to. Um.” He points, finger-guns, down at his crotch.

“I want you to enjoy this. Do you enjoy this?” Fuck, she’s at her rope’s end here.

He shrugs. And then, as if by magic, he’s sporting a raging erection. That’s weird, this whole thing is weird, she won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Still, she can’t shake the feeling that he’s just playing along. Like it’s a perfunctory cock with a perfunctory hard-on, a precise textbook arousal. He bites his lip and shudders below her as she takes him into her mouth but she almost feels, what. Like there’s something else going on here, and what she’s coaching her gag reflex against is just window-dressing. For her benefit.

He comes with a grunt that’s just a touch too delayed and she swallows, before she realizes there’s nothing really there to swallow. There’s an odd look on his face when she pushes herself up, goes to kiss him. His hands careful on her lower back and arse, curling in until she moans.

 

* * *

The fifth time she touches him, or depending on how she thinks about it, the first time: she’s just tired. Of him, of herself, of this; tired in general.

She goes to the bench in the console room but does not sit down, shuffles Year 6’s essays on _Lord of the Flies_ \- which has been marked already, has he noticed that she’s run out of work to do? Probably.

“You’re not human,” she says. Staring down at the top-most essay, a foreign date and a fading name, a whole other life she is drifting away from.

“No.” He answers like he knows what she’d really meant to ask. Hands in his pocket, coat splaying out around him, the flash of blood-red satin hidden below all his stiff dark wool.

“And when we.” Oh, just _say it._ “When we have sex, that’s not. How your kind do it?”

He laughs. Ambles across the mezzanine, hand trailing over the bookshelves, books. Like he’s reading them, somehow, in the blink of an eye. “I’ve never been a particularly good Time Lord.”

“Or Gallifreyan.”

“Mmm.” He stops, arm braced against a shelf. Staring at the trinkets and souvenirs he’s set out, toys and bells and statuettes. Symbols of his passing through this universe. Talismans, maybe. The physical world. Who he’d been, what he’d done.

“Who are you?” she asks. Not an attack. She’s not hurt. She hopes he knows that. She’s just - curious.

“I’m the Doctor,” he replies. Obviously.

“No. I mean.” She sets the stack of essays down, watches him set his carved-wood toy horse down. “Who _are_ you?”

They stare at each other. He backs down first.

“I don’t think you want to know-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, of _course_ I want to know-”

“Do you really? Honestly, do you-” He swallows the rest down. He looks scared.

“Yes. Please. Doctor, after all this time, how could you not get that I-” Oh, all the things she’s not saying. “-That I accept you? For who you are? Stop doing what you think I want, just. Stop. And be honest. I’ll ask you again, and so help me God if you don’t answer truthfully - what do you want?”

He hesitates. Considers. “There’s not a lot of precedent. I had a companion once, not human but similar, she married a Time Lord and I like to think they were happy together.”

Something in the air changing. She lets him work through whatever barriers he has.

“I look like this, we all do, or we did - it’s complicated - but we’re not…” He shrugs, something strangely loose about the way his shoulders rise and fall.

“I just want to see you,” she whispers. Chest tight, no she’s not crying, something in her eyes is all.

He shrugs again. Terrified, eyes watering. “Okay.”

And then he comes undone. A flickering, a sprawling, and then he’s everywhere, all around her.

 _So this is me_ , she feels, more than hears, him say. More arms than usual clinging to her, a tight and desperate hug. _No calamari jokes please._

“I like ‘em fried,” she squeaks out. “Fried rings of - oh.”

And everything she’d half-felt before she feels completely now, or as close as can be - still more barriers left, she realizes, or he tells her, as he curls his arms - not arms - his whatevers, around her.

Tentacles, is what those are, she matter-of-factly informs herself inside her head. With the pin-prick sting on her breasts and the undulating muscles and the slippery skin against hers. She can still see him - him as she knows him, gangly and grey and awkwardly Professorial - but she can also feel him, now, the shuddering glitching dissonance between the two.

 _Is this alright?_ he asks. One of many arms sliding up her thigh.

“Hng,” she grunts, hoping whatever her thoughts are doing is enough to carry the message. Because he’s overwhelming, he’s too much - and ‘he’ seems wrong, now, the sort of abstractly assigned gender ringing false against the breadth of this. Them, then. They are too much. And not enough, please that’s not _enough_ \- her hips bucked hard against the flesh tensing tight around her, sliding between her legs.

And she can still see him, him-as-she-perceived-him, the illusory little boy wearing an old man’s body around. Smirking, shuffling his feet. Beneath the thing they really are.

 _Middle-aged,_ comes the thought. _Too old for you but young enough to give ‘em hell._

 _You fucked up,_ she thinks back. _Maybe go older next time. Definitely less pretty._

She can feel them laughing, or. What is that. A pleased, humorous release, occurring somewhere around her. And the edge of the - what was that. A tentacle? She swallows her fear down. There’s no reason for that fear, now. The edge of their left-most, bottom-most tentacle slipping below her skirt and under the waistband of her panties, pulling them down, their skin oddly cool against her hot, wet-slick cunt.

 _Is this what you want?_ comes the thought.

“For fuck’s sake,” she gasps out, squirming around the tentacle squirming against her. “Just fuck me, already.”

 _Like this?_ A twitch, a pressure maintained against her clit.

She refrains from punching them in their face. Wherever the face might be. “Yes. Obviously. Like that. Context clues.”

_Such as when your nose scrunches up._

“Stop talking.”

_Or when you bite your lip._

“Shut up.”

_That muscle in your neck-_

“Shut the fuck up.”

And they do. For a little bit, at least. She’s not a miracle worker, after all.

 

( _You’re very pink,_ they say, lazily coalescing back into their grey-and-gangly presentation. Splayed out onto the bed, slowly retracting from her only to come back with human-shaped arms and legs, spooning her back in nearly a normal sort of way. _Roundish_.

“Thanks,” she says brightly. “I try.”)


End file.
